a chuckle is progress

It’s 3am in the Pacific Northwest, which means it’s breakfast time in Aruba. I’m baked and groggy; they’re fried and covered in a sticky glaze.

Perched on a bed of white rice, sit nine firecracker shrimp left over from last night’s Chinese takeout. Big, red flecks of hot chili pepper lay suspended in that refrigerator-cold syrup. I devour those spicy crustaceans without a second thought. In the end, all that lay between me and that Styrofoam container is a pile of unwanted rice. I close the box and feed the garbage bin its breakfast.

I need to get some sleep.

I pass by the bedroom mirror and my inner dialogue takes on a judgmental tone. In this harsh and windowless space, it’s just like a courtroom.

How fitting.

I endure the self-inflicted tongue lashings as I crawl back into bed to quiet that merciless judge. Grief makes you question everything about yourself and your surroundings; so, when I fall asleep, I escape to a warm, tropical island instead. 


Beautiful birds-of-paradise float above me riding the sea-scented breeze. I draw in a deep breath and I’m infused with a burning passion for life that radiates from my core.

A rat? No. Why does a rat need to appear in all of my dreams?

The burning grows more intense, creeping through my body, spreading through my chest in a fire that forces my eyes open and my body upright in my bed—thrust out of paradise and back into the waking reality of this dark and lonely space.

For a sliver of a moment, I believe that burning passion is still with me, that maybe, I’ve escaped from beneath Grief’s thumb.

Did I take this new lust for life back with me?

But as that thought is forming in my consciousness, the fire blazes its way up through my throat and I know I am no dragon, just a widower rudely awakened from a dream with a bad case of firecracker heartburn.

Sleep can’t cure this one.

I pop a few Tums and lie there awake with a digestive soup of spicy fried shrimp and antacids.

The doctor said I’ve lost 24 pounds since Vic died. He told me I could eat whatever I want, whenever I feel hungry. Apparently, anything “firecracker” should take a backseat for now.

Doctor Crowley gave a concerned look. “Dale, you gotta feed that brain of yours; finish that novel you were telling me about.”

I haven’t touched that project in 64 days to be exact. Since the day I lost Vic, my longest love, the only time I have put pen to paper is to chronicle my feelings in Grief. I hesitate to call it a diary. I try to trap these thoughts in the paper, exterminate them from my psyche. If left alone, your viral thoughts will spread and infest all corners of your mind. Nesting beneath the surface, crawling out just frequently enough that you can’t get anything good to occupy your mind for more than a moment. I try, but find no relief from the scurrying madness up there.

At least I’m still writing.

In the last days of Vic’s battle with cancer, he was more worried about me than meeting his unavoidable fate. He held my hand tightly, looked up at me with his big, dark eyes and whispered, “Whenever you need me, Daley, I’ll just be waiting in the wings.”

I thought, Hell, I could use some wings right now. Buffalo to be exact, cynically rejecting the thought of an afterlife while not understanding the grief-driven heartburn I’d come to experience.

65 days. I wonder, reflectively, if Vic was living on in some kind of Buddhist cycle of suffering, would he be conscious of it? Would he come around to remind me to switch the laundry like he always had? To tell old fables with a philosophical message?

Vic, being the poet he was, would speak in metaphors and love the look on people’s faces as they twisted with discernment. That old cook was always telling people to “take care and mind the owl upstairs.” I’m sure plenty of folks thought him to have lost his marbles. And others thought he referred to a divine being. But the only divine thing that Vic believed in was the chocolate cake from the Farmtown Café. He said it was “a heavenly cure for writer’s block”.

I wonder if they have a cure for me down there too.

The air is thick with coffee and conversation and that damned cowbell is announcing each arrival. The Farmtown Café is the most popular joint in town on the weekends.

The waitress arrives and offers a positive sentiment served with a sorry expression.

“Dale, we’re so glad to see your face around here again!”

I wasn’t prepared for this.

Chocolate cake and coffee for breakfast because Vic would want me to on his special day. I’m celebrating the memories of his life with his favorite cake, some evening Wheel of Fortune, and whatever else Grief decides is right because I’m at its mercy. At 60 years old, that man still found joy in everything. If he had left me with just a sliver of his optimism, I’d be like Mr. Rogers.

I chuckle to myself and think…Hey, a chuckle is progress.

Grief: the tallest, longest, and most maniacal roller coaster in the park. That’s its official definition.

One day you’re getting along alright, even share some laughter with the waitress. Then, Grief strikes you down. It suggests you have no business being happy when your spouse has lost their life. It’s a gradual climb out of the lowest valley of your life, a peak of serenity and acceptance, then an upside-down free fall as you gasp for breath.

Who decided to call this an amusement ride?

The new neighbor moving into that old farm next door—that’s amusement. He brought all of Noah’s Ark along with him.

As I drag myself out of the car, I force a friendly smile, welcoming him to town.

“Hey neighbor. Name’s Dale. Welcome to Sequim.”

“Dale! I’m Jerry, like the cat. Just an old farmer,” he says through a smirk. “What’s your specialty out in these parts?”

Oh, his humor is awful.

“A writer. You pen the animals; I pen the paper.”

And my humor is just as bad.

“Ah, I’m a bit of a reader…sometimes.”

“Well, Jerry, glad to see that old barn with some life in it again. Just wanted to welcome you and the entire animal kingdom to town.”

Jerry bellows a big “hee-haw” laugh, like he’s been hanging out with his donkey a little too much. “When I visited last month, this barn was just beggin’ for some activity. And hey…view of that sunrise there behind the barn isn’t half bad if I don’t say so myself.”

The sun is just peeking her head over the horizon, as if to assess the situation for herself. Gorgeous hues of pink, purple, and blue are beginning to bruise the sky when I hear, “Hoooo, hoooo.”

“Hm, If I’m not mistaken, that sounds to me like an owl you’ve got squatting in there.”

“A real Steve Irwin, you are Dale.”

“Is she gonna cause you any trouble living in your barn like that?”

“Oh, no. You see, the barn owl is a fierce predator with an agenda that serves us well here on the farm.” Jerry gets a real serious look on his face, “Without her, the nasty vermin would take over. Rats eatin’ up everything good and spreadin’ disease around…She lives just upstairs in the loft.”

The sun breaks and it’s like a scene out of The Lion King. The herd of animals come alive. I’m sure Jerry can easily read the expression of inspiration on my face.

“Hey, before you go, I reckon you could use this to do some of your writing?” as he hands me the most beautiful quill that had fallen from the owl’s wing.

I take the soft feather in my palm, admiring its strong core. I know just then what I need to do. “Thanks Jerry. It will be put to good use this morning.”

Each year on his birthday, I’d write Vic a note, sweet with a side of sarcasm. He always loved them. The owl’s wing feather will be perfect for continuing the tradition. As I sit at my desk to being writing, something feels different for this sorry widower. I read aloud the words I write as if I’m talking to him, as if he is here. My voice breaks, but it’s okay.

Happy birthday Vic.

I’d say you were over the hill today, but you’re just stuck at the top now, you lucky rascal. I hope you’ve got a beautiful view. The neighbor’s making use of that farm next door, I know that’d make you happy.

It’s a funny thing: how I spent all of these years, a mere witness to your wisdom and tales but never truly understanding. Well, today, I got your message. You were waiting for me in the wings. Until I was ready to let go of the vermin in my mind.

You’re still saving me, Vic. Now, after a café breakfast, I’m writing to you with heartburn and a smile, the owl upstairs at work. All it wanted was some chocolate cake.